


Choke (Yourself to Sleep)

by purpjools



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Alastor is in Hell for a Reason (Hazbin Hotel), Anal Fingering, Body Modification, Breast Enlargement, Breeding Kink, Brief mention of abortion, Cheating, Corruption, Creampie, Crossdressing, Crying, Demon Anatomy, Demon Dick in Detail, Demon Sex, Dual Genitalia, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Gratuitous Smut, Human Play, Humiliation, Knotting, M/M, Mpreg, Pregnant Sex, Rough Sex, Sex Positive Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Slight Blasphemy, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Voyeurism, shadow sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:41:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24877861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purpjools/pseuds/purpjools
Summary: Angel's in love, off drugs, and closer to than ever to redemption.Alastor revels in watching the world burn. He's determined to shove a wrench into that particular Elysian daydream.After all, securing front row seats to destruction is great, but participating is scores better.It's time to corrupt, absolutely.
Relationships: Alastor/Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel)/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 99
Kudos: 400





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here be the porn

“I wonder what your lover would think, seeing you spread open like this, for _me_ ,” he purrs, the melodious sing-song tenor of his voice scarcely louder than the ever-present glitching of radio static. Angel hears but does not see Alastor stepping out of his trousers. The metallic clang of the belt dropping to the floor is enough to elicit a wave of shame that he fails to batter down. There’s slight nausea and guilt present in that maelstrom, but the fact that his cock is hard and his cunt is sopping remains a bit of a mindfuck.

He’s sure that Alastor, the sadistic asshole, is banking on that.

He spreads his ass open, fingers indenting into his cheeks. Two of his hands prop his body up on the bed while the other two tug at his cock, just as Alastor instructed.

His cunt glistens wetly, but he ignores the bare need for now. Any port in a storm. He bites his lip or tries to, anyway. It’s an exercise in futility and Angel is too much of a mouthy brat to let that particular comment slide.

“Suck my dick, Smiles,” he moans. “He ain’t got nothin’ to do with this.”

“I should say so,” comes the amused response.

Fingers scrape down his back. The ensuing tingles race up his spinal cord.

“Is he even able to satisfy someone like you,” Alastor wonders aloud, derision staining his voice. “Or are you just that much of a demanding _whore_?”

His chest heaves with humiliation, but the comment and the manner in which it was said sends bolts of desire straight to his cock.

Oh no, Angel thinks.

He thought this specific kink disappeared along with his drug habit as if both were inexorably linked somehow. He halts his hands’ movements as precum drools from his slit. He moans, bouncing his hips up and down.

Apparently not.

“I…”

Alastor shushes him as he feebly attempts to explain himself. The action is degrading, but Angel just moans and basks in it. He can hear Alastor contemplating, the sound of the radio dials switching and clicking in the background as he makes sense of this latest development. The Radio Demon tunes his invisible and omnipotent channel, adjusting the frequencies until he’s satisfied and it settles in place.

“Oh, darling. You _enjoy_ this.”

It’s said in awe as if he’s figured out an answer to a problem that he didn’t quite grasp. The Radio Demon is adept at many things, but Angel has got him beat in the sex department.

Or so he thought.

He’d miscalculated how much sex, especially mind-blowing sex, has to do with acuity and manipulation. There was a reason why Valentino preferred clever girls, after all.

 _What’s reward with no risk,_ he was prone to say. _Their escapes are more successful, but they wrangle in triple times the customers._

Everyone in the sex industry knew that smarter whores were better at sex. They picked up on physical and subconscious cues, then utilized that knowledge to delve into the depraved psyche of the clientele, often figuring out what they desired during sexual play. Especially handy when the clients refused to acknowledge their own desires.

A smart and gorgeous girl was a twofer in the sex industry. Alastor, while decidedly not female, is both clever and adroit with his hands. Not to mention attractive. Angel always adored dapper daddies, and it was no use denying anything now.

Not when his pink holes are spread in wait for the burn of it.

“Please,” he begs. Angel gags for it, unabashedly.

Alastor laughs.

“This is going to be _very_ entertaining.”

* * *

It’s not that Angel does not love his boyfriend. Quite the contrary. He does.

It’s just that, well, his package isn’t quite up to Angel’s usual snuff. Angel has always been a bit of a size queen.

As an ex-porn star, he is well aware that it’s not the size of the boat but the motion of the ocean and all that jazz, but in his case, the motion doesn’t quite rock the boat, so to speak.

What he means to admit is this: his boyfriend sucks at sex.

It could not have come at a worse time. Angel, finally clean from drugs, was released from Valentino’s contract after strict negotiations by Alastor and Vaggie, of all people. He was also a pinch closer to redemption, according to outside sources.

Angel had never felt happier.

The co-proprietor of the hotel, however, seemed hellbent in destroying it all.

It started, like most things do, rather benignly.

Minor touches, here and there: a brush of hands whilst walking past each other; a careless back thump; a squeeze lingering a note too long.

Gradually, like a heating pot, it rose in temperature.

On the odd occasion Angel found himself sitting still, whether it be from thumbing through his phone or performing an equivalent action, a pair of hands inevitably wormed their way onto his shoulders, massaging and kneading strong digits into his muscles. Refusing to act untoward to such a perceived kindness, Angel allowed it precedence over his uncertain feelings.

After every session, Alastor abruptly stood up and said one phrase.

“Good boy.”

Angel, aroused and shamefully hard, lived for those moments.

He began adorning his shortest and tightest bottoms and lingered at every piano, couch, and armchair he could manage. Alastor took full advantage of his capitulation.

The proverbial camel, overburdened with straw, shook under the weight of their noxious game.

* * *

This was the straw that floated downwards:

The door to his room was slightly ajar, and it creaked as it shifted on its hinges.

Angel stopped to goggle at the sight. His breath lodged in his throat.

Alastor, shirtless, exposing his scarred back and chest, stroked himself languidly. He’d tied up his hair, exposing his nape. His fly was undone and his belt hung loosely around his hips. He tugged himself off, exposing the precum dotting his fat cockhead. He moaned, his head thrown backward, hips chasing his tight fist.

Angel salivated.

Alastor was gorgeous and _hung_.

Traitorously, his cock thickened in his panties. His body moved of his own accord.

If he was not already here in Hell, this would be enough to damn him.

He opened the door fully and stumbled over to the where the Radio Demon lazily peered through half-lidded eyes. Alastor smiled, a sultry curve, and raised a brow as Angel fell to his knees.

He parted his lips. He opened his mouth obediently as Alastor tilted his chin up.

He deserved this.

* * *

“How very entertaining,” Alastor repeats, softer. He touches the lips of Angel’s opening, rolling his clit between two of his fingers, mindful of his claws. Angel, still displaying his holes, shakes as Alastor wrings out jolts of pleasure from his body. A finger slips in.

“Two sets,” Alastor murmurs. “In Hell, no less. I wonder what Heaven might have given you.”

Angel bristles.

“Yeah, well, Hell gave me you,” he retorts. To his horror, it sounds like an endearment, something a lover might say, and entirely too intimate for such a filthy act. Alastor, sensing his discomfort, smiles even wider.

“Fair enough.”

It’s really not.

Angel unhinges his sore jaw, one hand coming up to massage it. He cranes his head as far past his shoulder as he can manage to set sight on that glorious cock once again. He rolls his tongue in his mouth, remembering the taste and the feel of it. The look of it is beyond impressive.

The Radio Demon’s cock is far from ordinary. As a retired porn star, Angel is more than qualified to say so.

The top half of it is stained crimson red, the selfsame shade found elsewhere on his body. It darkens gradually into black at the base.

His cock flares at the tip, almost equine, but not quite. Its massive head is bulbous and slightly thicker than the stem. Fat, protruding studs dot the underside of it in a ribbed, staggered formation. The pièce de résistance is the thickened band circling the middle of the stem. Halfway from the tip, it protrudes, rivaling the width of the cockhead. The swell reminds Angel of a knot, except instead of at the base, it wraps around the middle.

It looks like it would break him.

Angel humps Alastor’s fingers, coaxing them further in. He’s so slick inside. He desperately wants to yield and part his legs just for a taste of that ribbed monster. After such a disappointing spell, even the tip would satisfy him.

The pause stretches on enough, that Alastor speaks again.

“Would it make you feel less guilty if I took away your agency?” He laughed darkly. “If that’s even possible. You seem far too eager for breadcrumbs, nowadays. How terrible is he at this that you need _me_ to satisfy you? What _are_ you thinking?”

What was he thinking, Angel inwardly agrees, heat rising to the surface of his skin, hidden under his fur. Was he willing to give it all up, his partner, redemption, just for _this_?

The problem with recovery is that it’s constantly ongoing. Quitting cold turkey barely scratches the surface. They say that an addict never truly quits and that recovery is for life. And right now, what Angel craves more than his namesake, is Alastor.

Or at least his cock.

He thinks he understands Alastor’s game. Angel, contrary to widespread rumor, is not stupid. The Radio Demon is a deplorable sinner of the highest order. Alastor will do anything to sabotage Angel’s ascent. Why, he isn’t quite certain, but he’s aware of the goal. The problem is, Angel still took the damned Apple and sank his teeth into it as the juices ran down his hand.

Alastor may be hellbent on ensuring redemption never happens for Angel, so he’s damn sure that he’s going to get something out of it too. Alastor may be asexual, but even he knows: sex is about power.

And Angel was damned ever since he set foot inside the room.

“I wonder if he’d be amenable to watching. Or _listening_ ,” Alastor whispers, unaware or uncaring of his guilty plight.

Angel snaps on reflex. “Keep his name outta your goddamn mouth. Don’t ya dare broadcast this, Al. I swear to-”

He lifts a brow, grinning. “God?”

“Bit too late for that, my dear.”

With that, he shoves two fingers inside his cunt, and inserts one inside his asshole. Angel quivers around them, grateful that Alastor had the forethought to retract his claws. He pushes his ass back so that he slides down to the knuckles. His two hands keep his asshole open for Alastor’s viewing pleasure and that probing finger.

“Now, which one to debauch?”

Angel’s boyfriend prefers to bottom. On the off chance he feels like switching, he always fucks Angel’s ass. His boyfriend loves his cock and his asshole. Regrettably, that same admiration does not extend to his vagina. There’s nothing wrong with their situation, of course. Everybody has preferences. It just so happens that their preferences happen to clash most of the time. Sure, sometimes Angel does feel like topping. Most times, however, he wants nothing more than to be held down, partially against his will, and fucked until he can’t remember his God-given game.

Angel closes his eyes in defeat.

“My cunt,” he whispers. “Fuck my pussy.”

“Oh? My, was that a note of desperation? What’s the matter, dear? Is your lover not to your satisfaction?”

He can’t even bring himself to deny it any longer. He mewls pathetically.

“Please,” he moans. His only saving grace is that Alastor can’t see his face. It’s flaming with guilt, self-loathing, but worst of all, desire. Unfortunately for him, the Radio Demon seems to be adept at reading body language.

“Look at you, Angel Dust,” he taunts. “Betraying your lover, relinquishing your chance at redemption, and for what? A quick _fuck_?”

Angel shudders at the malicious tone. His cock jolts at the last word. He’s never heard Alastor swear that specific word before, and it drives him mad. Alastor meticulously hand-picks his dialogue, on-air and in person, to cultivate his debonair, devil-may-care image. As far as Angel is concerned, he’s only heard him slip twice. Both times someone was severely punished.

Angel viscerally wants Alastor to use him, to enjoy his body like the greedy prick he is, but most of all, he wants Alastor to let down his walls and succumb to the wrongness as he has.

Angel doesn’t realize he’s said this out loud until Alastor answers him, radio static clinging like second skin to his words.

“I highly doubt _that_ , dear.”

The tip of his cockhead presses onto his plump outer lips, precum slicking over the folds. The slickness causes Alastor to glide over Angel’s swelling clit, prompting him to gasp and push his hips back. He hears the smile in Alastor’s voice.

“But yes, to the first two.”

He eases the tip in slowly. He rocks almost gently inside as Angel accommodates his girth, before he decides that tender is not in his repertoire. With a single thrust, Alastor shoves his cock completely inside.

Angel’s world falls apart.

* * *

Alastor works him open forcibly, claws tangled in his fur at the hips. It’s not so much as a burn, but a _furnace_. Blinding pain mixes with excruciating pleasure as his walls stretch with the burden of accommodation. The midline ridge catches on his lips as it breaches him, so Angel uses two hands to spread himself open with every thrust. He’s too full, too stuffed to the brim.

It’s diabolically addicting.

Angel loses track of what spills from his mouth. He thinks he begs at first, which devolves into incoherent babbling, when finally it all coalesces into one word: _Yes_.

He’s on his hands and knees, getting fucked by an overlord who otherwise couldn’t care less about him, and he’s loving every sinful second of it.

_Love._

Guilt burrows its way under his skin, overwhelming the pleasure for a brief, but clarifying moment. His stomach plummets. It’s what his boyfriend told him last night. It’s what he repeats on a daily basis. It’s what Angel is capable of deserving.

Isn’t it?

Wait, he thinks, struck with guilt.

“Wait, Al! Stop! I can’t.”

To his chagrin, Alastor slows. He grinds down on that damned spot, once, bringing Angel right to the cusp, before ceasing all movement. Angel regrets nothing more in his afterlife as Alastor pulls out.

“More’s the pity,” he laments. “Ah, well.”

Angel’s own words echo back at him.

“Your loss,” he coos. Alastor wraps a loose hand around his cock and begins languidly pumping it up and down.

Whimpering, Angel collapses on his stomach, not even bothering to catch himself with any of his limbs. He rubs his cock on Alastor’s silk sheets, pressing his hips down to ease the pain of not climaxing.

Fool, he hears Alastor’s derisive voice in his mind. You’ve already begun. Did you think that stopping halfway was going to absolve you?

He sobs into the duvet. Shame settles over his shoulders like a well-worn coat. Desire wars with integrity inside his chest. But the mind of an addict always tips the scales. Love, right now, is an intangible concept. Everything tangible, in this wretched present, overrides all sense of judgment.

Angel loves his boyfriend. He does.

He just needs this more.

Using all his limbs, he flips himself over. He settles his weight on his elbows, hazily watching Alastor fuck his fist. That scarred torso, those broad shoulders, that slender waist.

That beautiful ribbed cock.

The Radio Demon slows his hand, covered in Angel’s slickness. He holds eye contact with Angel as he pumps.

Then, he does something completely filthy but somehow in character, and lifts his hand to his face. With his long, red tongue, he licks Angel’s come from his palm, spits in it, and brings it back down to his dick.

Angel breaks. Vows, promises, the works.

He could at least pretend there was a struggle.

“Al,” he whines, tremulous. “Al, ‘m sorry. Put it back in.”

Alastor, true to his sadistic nature, does not comply right away.

“What _was_ that, Angel? Try it once more, with feeling.”

There’s an odd whirring sound in the background that seems familiar for some reason, but Angel can’t put his finger on it. He dismisses it in favor of instant gratification.

“ _Please_ , Al. _Please_ put it back in. _Please_ fuck me.”

“And why should I? As I recall, you told me to stop.”

Angel rubs his thighs together, gapingly empty. He spreads them again, lying back on the bed. A hand snakes down to his cunt, parting his swollen lips. He pulls back his clitoral hood, revealing the pink nub.

“Al, I need ya inside me. You fill me up better than anyone I’ve ever had. Please.”

He’s never sounded more pathetic.

Alastor seems to bask in his pleas. He stalks over to Angel, preening, and surveys his handiwork under half-lidded eyes. His hand grips the base of his cock as he positions himself in between Angel’s lips. He nestles his cockhead further inside, burying the tip, as Angel moans. He wraps his long legs around Alastor’s waist, heels digging into his back. The movement jostles him further inside. Alastor tuts.

A screech of radio feedback blares in the background.

“Now, Angel Dust,” he croons in his radio announcer voice. “Who do you belong to?”

Angel opens his mouth to answer, but Alastor, that reprehensible bastard, without preamble, shoves in. He fills him utterly. The action punches a shout from his throat. His insides quake at the hasty intrusion, and his walls clench in pain and pleasure.

He gasps out, “The Radio Demon.”

Alastor’s smile darkens. He tilts forward, placing his lips over Angel’s in a mockery of a kiss. He licks the blood dotting Angel’s lips from his anxious worrying, laving lewdly over the soft skin.

“Lead us not into temptation,” he purrs.

As a warped reward, he resumes thrusting at a more punishing pace than before.

“My dear,” he grunts, “I’d never expected _you_ out of all demons to be so…”

“Tight?” A flash of fury and indignation sweeps through Angel, burning temporarily hotter than pleasure.

“Precisely,” Alastor says, digging nails into his flank. The piercing pain distracts him from his temporary rage. It almost overrides the sting inside him when the impossible thickness breaches him. The stretch is Heaven. He bears down, causing Alastor to claw deeper.

“A set,” he hisses as he manipulates Angel like a rag doll. “This body was made for this, wasn’t it?”

Rhetorical question.

“And you mistakenly thought that you could be meant for anything else. How laughable.”

Tears prick along the corners of Angel’s main eyes. The other six blink rapidly.

“Love? What a fallacy. As if someone could love a demon like you.”

His stomach drops, and so do the tears. He sobs in despair, tears trailing down his face, emptying him further. All the while, the pleasure builds to a ruinous peak as his soft hole milks Alastor’s cock. His hips cant and find purchase even as his heart folds in on itself.

The pressure grows, deep inside him, unfurling and reaching out with claws. Alastor rides roughshod over his body, claiming it in every way possible. He breaks in his mind, body, and whatever is left of his soul.

Angel surrenders all of it.

This isn’t love, he knows. Far from it. At best, it’s unmitigated lust.

He castigates himself as Alastor pounds into him, stimulating that maddening spot of nerves over and over. Angel was never great at denying himself.

So why start now?

He widens his eyes as the midline bulge of Alastor’s cock thickens. He scrambles until Alastor grabs him by the throat, shushing him. Alastor moans, garbled by static and tuning noises as he throbs and expands inside Angel. Angel whimpers as it fills him beyond normal capacity.

The base of his cock also flares unexpectedly, forcing Angel to spread his legs further as an attempt at relief. It’s to no avail; the jolt of pain pushes him over the edge, piercing pleasure through his veins. His cunt throbs with the blinding shock of release.

Angel screams as he comes, walls clenching, cock spilling come onto his abdomen. He briefly passes out.

He comes to with Alastor slamming into his sopping cunt, claws pinching his clitoris, coaxing him into another violent orgasm, this one steadily building towards climax. Heat blossoms inside him as history repeats itself. He finds himself teetering on the cusp again when Alastor roars. His antlers bough out, branching at unprecedented speed.

His lurches forward, stuffing every inch of his cock inside, filling Angel completely. Head spinning, cunt sore and pulsing, Angel clenches down as he comes again.

Alastor bites down as he empties his seed. He thrusts erratically, pumping out every last spill of ejaculate, ensuring Angel’s desecration. His pseudo-knots thrum as his biology attempts to secure pregnancy. His claws blindly grasp at Angel’s chest, threading fingers through the fur as he arches his back to breed deeper into Angel. Alastor’s lids flutter in what appears as bliss and relief.

Angel, in a half-conscious state, absently wonders how long it has been since Alastor properly came. To Angel, it feels like ages since he has. Last night seems so long ago.

Distantly, Angel knows that he’s reached the point of no return. As Alastor throbs inside him and gasps above him, Angel decides that he is damned forever.

It’s a conscious decision.

Alastor gifts him an exhausted but no less haughty smile.

“Dear, we’re going to be here a while.”

He hopes Charlie will understand.

* * *

Alastor smiles as he’s finally able to extricate himself, even if it is with a bit of a wince. His cockhead glides over Angel’s thigh, leaving behind a trail of come. He continues to smirk as he stuffs his thumb back into Angel’s cunt, before sliding it out and wetly tracing over his clitoris with their combined sin. Angel, overstimulated beyond words, moans.

He arches his back as Alastor leans in.

His tongue, blood red, slithers out.

Jazz notes filter through the static.

* * *

Angel moves to greet his boyfriend, sidling up to him. He kisses him on the cheek. For that, his man grabs his ass, prompting Angel to shift slightly away. A warm gush of come leaks from his hole at the abrupt movement, soaking through his panties. He shudders, a gesture his boyfriend interprets as pleasure.

It’s anything but.

He clenches his thighs together as if it’ll make a difference.

“Ready to go, baby?”

Angel flicks his gaze over to the bar, where Alastor is in deep conversation with Husk, who seems to be berating him. As he often does when he feels eyes at his back, Alastor pauses. A creaking noise follows as his head swings to meet Angel’s stare.

He winks, and Angel’s cock thickens in his ruined undergarments.

“Not yet,” Angel purrs, wrestling with the insatiable urge to greet his new owner.

_Not yet_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Title is from the song, Choke by I Don’t Know How But They Found Me.
> 
> 2\. Matthew 6:13, part of the Lord’s Prayer. “And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tags have changed and the bar has lowered.
> 
> Very explicit.
> 
> (Please heed the new tags)

“You’re disgustin’.”

“Am I, now?”

Angel squirms in his frilly skirt. His smooth thighs rub against each other, devoid of fur, and his chest heaves with anticipation. He’s not sure what magic made him this way but he knows for certain that he’s barely older than eighteen. He comes to that conclusion seconds after Alastor snaps his fingers.

He parades himself in front of the conjured mirror. His human form stares back, albeit with a few minor changes. He’s younger, scandalously so, and he finally has a set of tits to rival his sister’s. He rocks up and down, watching them bounce. Alastor smirks in the reflection.

Angel can’t be bothered; he’s so happy, it hurts.

“How exactly am _I_ the deviant, here? You’re the one who informed me of the details when you were first defiled. This is _your_ perverse fantasy. I’m merely playing it by ear.”

He grins, languidly stroking his cock. “Now come on, dear. Have a seat on my lap.”

Angel chews his lip as he peers down.

“Look, Smiles, I may be a size queen and all, but like it or not, that monster ain’t fittin’ in this body.”

“Couldn’t hurt to try,” Alastor drawls.

“Yes, it fuckin’ can!”

Alastor sighs. He removes his hand from his cock. With ease, he slices his palm open with a claw. He snaps his slippery fingers, spraying droplets of blood into the air. He immediately takes on a new form.

Angel attempts to pick his jaw from off the floor, unsuccessfully. He practically salivates at the sudden change in appearance.

Tall, dark, and handsome. If Angel was allowed to have a type when he was human, this would have most definitely been it. He glances down again.

“For fuck’s sake! Ya gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me. No way ya ain’t exaggeratin’ that!”

Alastor chuckles. “Afraid not. Funny little world, isn’t it? Endow the one person uninterested in fornication with a sizeable functional organ? Proof that God must have a sense of humor.”

Angel mutters under his breath as he hoists his leg over and clambers on. He swings his legs over the sides of the chair, using his hands to grip Alastor’s shoulders. It’s tricky, lowering himself without the assistance of extra arms, but muscle memory quickly kicks in. He sinks to Alastor’s fist where he holds his cock upright, wincing as he’s filled. He releases it as Angel settles, and Angel slides to the base. He gives his hips an experimental wiggle at the glorious stretch. Alastor responds with a moan. He grabs Angel by the nape with his free hand, yanking him closer.

“Darling, you’re quite the looker. Those are marvelous on you. My, you look so innocent.”

Angel chokes back pride. He preens, arching his back, gifting Alastor generous access to his newly formed breasts.

“Flatterer,” Angel purrs, wrapping his arms around his neck, guiding him down. Soft lips wind around his nipple. Teeth gently tease the nub. They’re so sensitive, more than he remembered them being. It’s Alastor’s fault entirely, he knows. Everything he does with his magic has purpose.

He’s one of the most depraved partners that Angel has ever had.

Angel loves it. He hates that he does.

His boyfriend’s adoring face surfaces for a moment in his mind, and Angel feels the hot stab of guilt nick at his insides. He spins the image over in his head, once, before burying it under wanton lust. A brief wave of nausea washes over him, but then, a soft tongue circles Angel’s nipple, flicking it briefly. Prickling sensitivity trails down to his dick. He basks in the mounting pleasure. Alastor’s teeth are blunted now; his claws, nails. They wring out breathy gasps from Angel’s lips, but the threat of danger hasn’t diminished. Angel is still hyperaware of the predator that lurks beneath, holding him up with deceptively gentle hands.

Angel soaks in every bit of Alastor’s human form. He claws fingers through Alastor’s dark hair as he lavishes attention on each nipple, forcing out moans from Angel’s lips. As if reading his mind, Alastor murmurs around the nipple, and the mirror expands. Reflective surfaces surround them.

It’s a barricade of mirrors, and Angel can see them at every possible angle.

There’s no escaping that. Not anymore.

Hesitantly, he glances at the nearest one. What he sees is nothing short of obscene.

He views his teenaged self, riding a man’s cock of his own volition, thighs straining as he shimmies his hips up and down. His tits, obscured by Alastor’s mouth, look lovely from this angle. He bites his lips to keep from moaning. He’s forgotten how young and alluring his young self could look. Together, they paint the filthiest picture.

“I’m thirty-two if you were wondering. In this form.”

Angel picks up the pace. It’s profane and horrible and perverted and he shouldn’t like it but-

“Dear, you’re positively dripping,” Alastor says. He mouths at his nipple, sucking lewdly before nipping and withdrawing. He smiles, predatory.

“I could’ve made you _younger_ ,” he purrs.

Angel almost comes right then. As if predicting it, Alastor settles his hands on Angel’s hips, stilling him for a moment. He splays his hand over the small of his back, pulling him closer.

“Talk me through what happened, darling.” His voice drips with sin.

He could give Lucifer a run for his money, Angel thinks. Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

A guilt-ridden part of Angel, mired in humiliation and denial, doesn’t want to. But Alastor’s words are intoxicating, and he’s gifted Angel these tits and the thick human cock which fills him deliciously to his breaking point.

It couldn’t hurt to voice it once, he thinks.

Would it?

“My,” Angel begins just as Alastor surges up. He moans.

“Go on, dear. Excuse the interruption. You’ve gone positively still,” he chastises. Angel nods his head, befuddled with arousal, and resumes riding him. His face flames with embarrassment and lust.

“My teacher,” he gasps out. “I was eighteen. He told me to meet him after class for remedial work.” Alastor pistons upwards and thrusts forcefully. Angel’s words hitch in his throat. He takes a moment to recover, with Alastor mercilessly pummeling his prostate, and continues.

“He told me that he wanted to see somethin’. So I laid back on the desk and spread my legs. He said that I was beautiful the whole time.” Angel scratches Alastor’s sides, red lines stenciling down. “Can’t believe I lost it to that smarmy asshole.”

Alastor bucks. “So why, then? Surely you had better prospects than that, especially in New York.”

Angel pauses. He takes a deep breath.

“He was nice to me.”

Alastor slightly loosens his grip on his waist.

Alarmed, Angel frantically glances towards him, and he’s greeted with the vision of sharp, shark teeth.

“Oh, darling,” he croons before sinking his teeth in. Without warning, Alastor transforms back into his demon visage.

His cock changes too.

The pain is excruciating. He thinks he screams, but even that is questionable. His neck is on fire. His hole stretches too wide. Tears leak from his eyes. The pain contributes to the pleasure, overlapping, and too intimate to extricate.

“Oops,” Alastor laughs, darkly. “Magic is so unpredictable, isn’t it, dear?”

His lashes flutter as he attempts to hold back the barrage of tears. The mirrors taunt him with their ersatz embrace. He looks at himself and sees the awful truth reflected in the looking glass.

His eyes are glazed over, mouth panting out little gasps, chest heaving with pain and exertion. He’s undoubtedly human, in all his freckled glory, dark blonde hair damp with sweat, and impaled on the Radio Demon’s cock, bouncing his hips as his body reluctantly accommodates the overwhelming girth.

The contrast is striking, and too much to bear.

Angel blacks out but not before coming harder than he had ever before.

It’s violent, the way he shudders. Every pulse of his hole milking Alastor’s cock hurts. That is the last thought he has before losing consciousness in that deep place where pain and pleasure entwine.

When he comes to, it’s to damp fabric and arms bearing his weight. He’s curled up on Alastor’s scarred torso, all his limbs clutched around. Angel can’t move with the knots swollen, locked in place. He groans as he shifts. It is less painful now that he’s reverted to his demonic form.

“Glutton for punishment, are you?”

Alastor’s fingers crawl towards his cunt. With little hesitation, he buries them inside. Alastor shifts purposely so the knots expand further. Angel whimpers, smelling the coppery ghost of blood.

Throughout, Alastor teases his clit with his thumb, thrusting the rest of his fingers inside with a lazy rocking motion. Angel’s cock twitches with the unrelenting onslaught. He jerks when Alastor’s fingers find their intended target, caressing that spot deep within him. Alastor bends his wrist to accommodate the angle.

“That’s it, darling,” he encourages. “ _Give in_.”

When Angel comes again, it’s simultaneously the worst and best sensation in the world.

* * *

The sheets billow around his body as he’s deposited into bed.

Angel groans, a hand springing out automatically. The muscles under his claws stiffen but remain still. It’s only when the shadows return, chittering and clicking, does Alastor break free.

The dip in the mattress springs back as he stands.

Angel is too drained to react, but his neck prickles as hot breath fogs near his neck.

“He may have you later, but I had you first,” Alastor croons, too close to his jugular. He slips away and unlatches the window.

“Do keep that in mind, dearest.”

He disappears into the night. The sound vacuum and pressure vanish with him, the distinct scent of void lingering in the dead air.

It’s not a minute too soon.

Angel’s boyfriend walks into the room, cheerful and oblivious as ever. He peels back the sheets, joining him in bed. He begins his usual ministrations after sweet talk and reassurances.

Angel moves on autopilot. He stares up at his ornate ceiling while his mind drifts elsewhere.

Gales buffet the window shutters the entire night.

It doesn’t rain.

* * *

Angel is terrified.

He’s terrified that this _thing_ with Alastor ( _affair_ , his mind hisses) will become the norm. He’s already starting to reject his boyfriend’s advances, attributing it to lack of libido or headaches from residual withdrawal (which may well be part of the truth). He behaves like an uninterested housewife, and it bothers him so goddamn much.

Finally, and when someone loves him unconditionally.

Angel hates himself.

He hates that he craves Alastor’s touch. He’d naively thought that this was a one-off. Then, after the first couple of times, he hoped that the novelty would wear off and that he would be able to wash his hands of all this, conscience guilty but salvageable.

He hadn’t realized how adept he was at lying to himself until Alastor refused to touch him for three weeks.

Alastor begged off his hotel duties, citing radio tower maintenance and catching up on broadcasting duties. Charlie and Vaggie allowed him to leave, provided he returns in a month. At first, Angel didn’t think much of it. He was busy planning romantic scenarios for his upcoming anniversary.

It was only when the second week crept up did he experience the effects of withdrawal. He woke up to slickness between his thighs, a ghost of a smile above his cunt, and soiled sheets. Even after intercourse, Angel found himself rutting into his hand, trying desperately to capture the essence of Alastor’s touch.

Everything his lover did was so clinical, so mundane. Angel’s body, once acclimated to mind-blowing and intense sex during his years as a sex-worker, responded poorly to his lover’s lackluster performance.

Two weeks.

Two weeks in and Angel pleaded at the entrance to the radio tower, sighing in relief as the double doors swung open.

Before he was unceremoniously shoved inside and to the ground, where he was repeatedly taken and accosted.

It happened a while ago, but Angel still remembers it like it was yesterday.

Denial is such a funny little thing.

What’s even funnier:

Angel has been throwing up for a week now.

* * *

The demon wrestled him to the ground.

Something ripped his skirt and tore it from his body, but it was too hazy and too dim to make out any defining features. As many eyes as Angel displayed, he still had trouble adjusting to the unnatural red bleed of the radio tower lights.

At about ten seconds into the assault, he was blinded by silk cloth. Ropes wove and tightened around all eight of his limbs in an intricate formation. He kicked out as best and ferociously as he could. The action was swiftly met with thick weights pinning him down by his thighs, but not before spreading his legs as far as they could feasibly stretch.

He struggled, panicking as nausea bloomed in his belly. He twisted his hips as a hand cupped his still-clothed cock, gripping it firmly before yanking his panties aside to reveal his humiliatingly slick cunt. The fingers teased over the labial folds, dipping barely inside him to wet the intrusive digits before using his slick to glide over his sensitive clit. The fingers circled it tenderly, mimicking a lover’s caress. A bastardization of it.

Angel bucked into the wandering fingers involuntarily. He sobbed as they wriggled their way inside his cunt, pumping in and out at a steady pace. The demon continued humiliating and desecrating his body while he flailed and shamefully ground his hips towards the touch.

The fingers withdrew, far too early. A hard, probing mass shoved at his lips, slipping twice as it attempted to breach him. Panic flooded his mind. He wriggled and struggled to the best of his ability, rope cutting into his arms as he tried in vain to escape.

His eyes blinked back tears as the enormous appendage forced its way inside him. Pain overrode pleasure for a brief, torturous moment. The hard line of the demon rested against his backside, indicating that the extremity was buried inside him, to the base. Angel closed his eyes in shame as slickness increased between his thighs despite his efforts to the contrary. Waves of self-loathing battered at him. He berated himself for his foolishness, choking back a sob. Fresh tears soaked through cloth as the organ rammed into him with fervor.

“Oh, do stop sniveling, darling,” a bored voice intoned. “I’m sure this isn’t the worst thing to have happened to you in the past decade.”

The blindfold was plucked from his face. Everything was still painted red.

“Alastor?” he sniffled, chest heaving. The weightlessness of relief was overwhelmed by rolling nausea. His body, in a wrecked state of confusion.

The pleasure continued to build, this time without the obstruction of terror, as Alastor forcibly wrung it out. Angel moaned shamefully as Alastor’s cock pumped in and out of his receptive cunt.

Suddenly, Alastor paused, sniffing the air. A chill ran down Angel’s spine. The ever-present static rose in frequency and volume.

“You failed to mention you were fertile,” garbled the Radio Demon, his antlers branching out into pointed prongs. They creaked and groaned as they expanded, looming over their joined bodies. His eyes morphed into radio dials. The symbols began their macabre dance between them. He tasted blood on his tongue. Coppery miasma drenched the air.

“My,” a voice wrapped in silk whispered. “It’s hard to run when you’re being penetrated, isn’t it?”

Angel fruitlessly attempted to flail and break free of his tentacular shackles. Alastor laughed, and it was marred with static throughout.

“Where would you like me to spend, dear?”

The knots engorged. Angel panted, slicing his lip open with a fang. “I have a fuckin’ choice?”

Alastor tutted. “Mouth off again, and you might not.”

Angel clenched in retaliation. This served to encourage and goad Alastor, which never ended well. Angel changed his tune as the middle knot pulsated and began to balloon inside his cunt, snagging on that spongy bundle of nerves deep inside him. Pleasure coiled and concentrated as his body responded favorably to the expansion.

“Inside,” he begged. “Fuck me like the worthless-”

He resisted admitting it, but by a slim margin. His humiliation kink only overrode his pride so far. Angel’s eyes burned, but his hips continued their rocking motion. Sharp teeth closed in on his neck.

“Worthless whore you are,” Alastor crooned without missing a beat. He bit down, penetrating Angel again. Angel’s head spun as the pain intermingled with mind-numbing pleasure.

Mouth dripping with blood, Alastor slithered out his tongue out and licked a wet path down his exposed neck. The caustic sting and rough lapping struck all Angel’s erogenous zones.

Angel rolled his eyes back as the dual sensations gripped his body.

“Dear,” Alastor sang, “I’d say you’re worth _more_ than that.” He whispered the next instruction, like a secret.

“Now, behave, dear. Be a _good_ boy.”

That was what did it, Angel realizes much later. That was what secured it: violated on the slippery floor of the radio tower by a monster with morals aligned with his own.

Angel wailed as he came, all over Alastor’s floor, hips jerking as he spilled into the air. So near a dual orgasm, his cunt pulsed as the second climax followed. The pleasure that washed over him was nigh unbearable. Alastor howled as his demonic form possessed his body and overruled his rational mind. He worked Angel open for the duration of his orgasm, before finally shoving in fully and pinning him to the base. The knots fattened and latched him in place. Angel shuddered as the Radio Demon ejaculated deep inside of him.

We’re truly made for each other, aren’t we, Angel thought as he rode out his orgasms.

_Match made in Hell._

* * *

He knocks on the door leading to their shared suite.

“Babe,” he calls out. “Ya there? Got somethin’ to talk to you about.”

His boyfriend opens the door with a welcoming smile. Guilt collapses into him like disintegrated planks in a burning building.

This is the man I love, he thinks.

Angel knows the right thing to do.

He clutches his hand and guides him to their bed. They sit down. His boyfriend covers another hand over their joined ones, squeezing softly.

“Baby? What’s wrong?”

Angel knows the right thing to do. He knows this, inherently and viscerally. They all say that he’s a stone’s throw away from redemption, with how _good_ he’s behaving.

He knows all of this.

So why he says, “Baby, I’m pregnant,” and nothing else should be somewhat surprising.

It isn’t.

As his boyfriend’s face transforms from worry to abject joy, the guilt buries into his flesh and twists. He winces as it corrodes him from within. It’s almost at the tip of his tongue, the whole truth, when his boyfriend babbles, “I was going to wait to ask you, babe, but I guess the next best time is now!”

He pats down his pockets, digs inside, and produces two matching rings.

Angel is struck with the overwhelming impulse to retch.

It’s the pregnancy, he thinks in rapid-fire. It’s just the pregnancy.

Angel forces a smile. He tells him everything he wants to hear, lying through his teeth.

Joy rotting in his throat.

An antique radio sits in the corner, an otherwise unremarkable entity in a room crowded with the bric-a-brac of a shared life.

* * *

The radio tower is in total disarray.

What spartan furnishings he’s kept are upturned and splintered. Glass shards pave the floor. Smashed equipment spark weakly with errant electricity, and the blinking red eyes embedded in the tower bleed brighter with every pulse.

There’s still _time_ to nip it in the bud, he thinks, gnashing his tongue. Blood erupts in his mouth, dripping down the sides of his downturned lips. His claws twitch. A boiling flood of pain pierces his head as his demonic biology rebels against the very notion.

Not for the first time, Alastor curses his bestial nature. He grapples, a losing battle, with it: the urge to claim.

To _procreate_.

Pregnant, he howls in his head. His ferine mind yearns to confirm and ensure it, _several_ times, just to be sure.

Alastor is positive he’s going mad.

Not that he possessed much sanity to begin with.

No matter, he thinks, attempting to placate his bestial instincts. This is much better than the initial plan. Children will tether him further to this place. Alastor knows that Angel is softer than what he asserts himself to be. Gleaning from what little information given, Alastor is positive that Angel has always wanted a family of his own.

It’s what he reminds himself, anyway.

Alastor isn’t sure why his feet point in the direction of the door.

And even less sure why they move towards it.

* * *

“Let me in.”

Angel opens the door at the familiar timbre. His boyfriend is gone for the night, off to do reconnaissance for some overlord or other. He hugs his gown tighter around himself, but it’s all for show. The ring circles his finger, the solid weight of it a heavy reminder.

It’s an order and not a request.

Angel steps away, hand falling from the knob.

Alastor walks inside.

* * *

He knots thrice more for good measure.

Angel gasps beneath him. Alastor clutches his quivering thighs, spreading them wider as his knots swell.

Angel threads his many fingers through his hair, a strand snagging on the fourth digit of a roving hand. He purrs, soothing the marks at Angel’s throat. He pulls away, but Angel halts him, steadying a hand on his nape.

They face each other.

Alastor leans forward, propelled by some ridiculous, post-coital flight of fancy. Angel meets him in the middle.

It tastes long overdue.

He decides to stay, just for tonight.

Outside, it sounds like rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> James 4:17: So whoever knows the right thing to do and fails to do it, for him it is sin.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you're looking for a grand, sweeping love story, this ain't it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional tags: Pregnancy sex, shadow sex, voyeurism

The wedding venue is beautiful, Angel thinks.

Well, as beautiful as one could expect from Hell.

And vastly different from earthy ceremonies. The lack of crosses is one thing. The inclusion of satanic symbols smeared in blood and other inscrutable fluids is another. As of right this instant, however, Angel cannot appreciate the finer details of the whole debacle.

His wedding is in two hours, and Angel is being tongue-fucked in the dressing room.

By their officiant.

“There’s my subservient darling,” Alastor rumbles against his clit. Angel shudders, trying his utmost to keep his legs steady around Alastor’s head. He’s usually adept at following orders, but unconventional situations call for extraordinary actions. In any which way, he unravels with each precise lick.

“Well, you’ve softened up,” Alastor murmurs, the vibrations from his amplified radio voice doing terrible and wonderful things to his clit. His tongue spirals around the sensitive bud, enticing Angel into shouting his damned name. He can almost feel the smug smile wrapped around his clitoris.

“Louder, dear. Once more, with feeling,” the thrice-damned demon hums into his cunt. His tongue encircles the pink bundle, flicking at it languidly in turns. Angel, impertinent and unsatisfied, betrays orders and traps Alastor’s head between his thighs. Alastor answers by punching his tongue inside Angel, extending and expanding it with spellwork, causing him to _twist_ with unexpected pleasure. He clenches around the invading muscle, and all hell breaks loose.

Angel moans and latches Alastor’s head in place.

Alastor reaches out and places a gentle hand on his growing stomach, and laps at the sensitive spot inside him. He comes, spurting all over his stomach and Alastor’s hand. He surrounds Alastor’s expert tongue with a vice grip.

“Such a _menace_ ,” he purrs, as Angel rocks back on his mouth like a wanton slut. His soft pink walls flutter around his pulsating tongue. Alastor dips it deeper once more before shallowly lapping up Angel’s slick. The sonorous vibrations from Alastor’s amplified purring wreak havoc on his overstimulated clit. He feebly tries to buck him off.

Alastor responds by reaching up and tearing the wedding dress down his chest, exposing his chest fluff and shoulder markings. He whimpers, scooping up the ruined bustline to no avail as the onslaught continues. The texture of Alastor’s tongue ranges from ribbed rough to lubricant soft. Like his cock, it is too much until it’s not.

Angel wails or tries to when he withdraws completely. A thick tentacle silences him as it wriggles into his mouth. Angel’s cheeks swell at the intrusion.

He’s already in Hell, which goes without saying, but at this rate, he’d trade his soul twice over for what Alastor does next.

“Take these off,” Alastor growls, privately and mostly to himself. He doesn’t wait for assent. He rips apart Angel’s carefully curated silk intimates donned for his wedding night with unsheathed claws. The torn fabric settles over his cunt, triggering a jolt of sensation and shame. Alastor benevolently extracts the tentacle, now slick with saliva. Angel gasps out, gulping down a breath to prepare himself.

Foolish.

It’s never enough.

Alastor forces himself inside him, the first knot splitting him for the next. His legs are spread as wide as he thought they could stretch, but Alastor’s tentacular tendrils pry him to his limit. His cock is longer and thicker than he remembered, even though they’d fucked mere days earlier. He whines; a question.

Alastor, spurred on by some misplaced goodwill, answers.

“It’s reacting to the impregnation, dear. I suggest you lie back. And think of-”

“New York?”

“Precisely.” Alastor grunts lowly, sheathing himself to the base. Angel dimly registers the pain, but the pleasure overrides everything. He’s close to bursting, but Alastor’s not finished. Not yet. A tentacle slithers up his thigh and pushes insistently between his cheeks. Panicked, he opens his mouth to protest, when Alastor uses his parted lips to his advantage.

Both tentacles penetrate his remaining holes in tandem.

Angel blacks out.

When he eventually comes to, it’s to the steady pulsing of tentacles in his mouth and ass. The tentacle shivers inside his mouth as it fucks in. It tastes like Alastor, he thinks. Salt, slightly tangy, and with what he imagines static must taste like.

Bitter, with a hint of remorse.

A stinging sensation pierces his thighs as Alastor unsheathes his claws and drags them down his thighs. He howls at the pain as best he can with a tentacle lodged down his throat, writhing in instinct to escape. True to Alastor fashion, he punctuates the pain with narcotic pleasure. The tentacles don’t let up, and neither does he. Angel whines as he stretches to accommodate Alastor. His legs shake as his insides are forced open. The pressure from the tentacles pistoning into him chokes off his breath supply and spreads his thighs wider. Alastor groans creakily as Angel tightens.

He leaves the stockings in tatters.

Angel drowns.

A heady rush mainlines down to his cock and cunt. His thighs quake as blinding pleasure overwhelms him. Alastor’s fingers pinch his clit. The static doubles and increases in pitch as he thumbs the wet pink nub soothingly; maddeningly. Angel sobs.

I’m getting married today, he thinks before he traitorously convulses and comes all over the Radio Demon’s cock.

Alastor hisses. The static climbs steadily higher, and Angel, in his lustful haze, can imagine that all of Hell must be aware of the sound. It weaves and threads its way from Alastor’s microphone to Angel’s ears, and then past that into the blasphemous venue they call a chapel.

Angel nods off twice. His orgasms rip him violently apart, just like the skin under Alastor’s claws. Angel milks his cock with juddering pulls of his hips, but Alastor, for some reason, pulls out.

Angel whimpers at the sudden emptiness. His cunt clenches, trying in vain to coax him back in. The tentacle slithers from his throat.

“Finish me off,” he whispers in his ear. “Won’t you, darling?”

Angel sluggishly moves to do so, but those slick tentacles pin his wrists back.

“Ah, ah,” he scolds, waggling his finger back and forth.

“The upper left hand.”

With a nauseated start, Angel realizes why.

His wedding ring.

“You’re such a bastard,” he manages weakly. The force of his orgasms leaves him boneless. Still, he grasps the thick shaft in his hand. The gem glitters mockingly as he works his fist up and down. His palm runs over the prominent bumps, and Alastor chokes back a gasp.

A strange ripple of affection courses through him at the noise. Angel shuts his eyes. It increases his nausea by tenfold.

“Angel,” he hisses. “Darling-”

Angel opens his eyes. His heart thuds in his chest. Alastor appears not to have noticed the slip of the tongue, and the endearment floats in the air above them, before finally sinking down to Angel’s sternum.

Oh, fuck no, he thinks.

_No._

After Alastor comes with a sigh, he sets to cleaning up the mess he made of Angel’s fur. He licks most of it off, lapping up his come with his long tongue. He grumbles when his teeth skate the lace and, with a wave of his hand, promptly mends the rest of it. Angel’s dress transforms back to pristine condition. His stockings remain ruined, as the rest of his undergarments, but thankfully, his gown is long enough to cover the shredded fabric.

Alastor rests his head on Angel’s forehead. They catch their breath, and the static dies down to a simmer. He lifts his eyes and meets Angel’s inquiring gaze.

The kiss is brief, but soft. There’s a tentative brush of tongues before Alastor retreats. He pulls back, rearranging his parted lips into a sneer.

“You would do to get dressed, dear. Best not to leave the groom waiting!”

Angel’s heart plummets to his stomach. Alastor triggers his laugh track. Try as Angel might, he cannot find it within himself to join in. He turns to go, but not before fishing out something from his coat pocket. It flutters to Angel’s lap.

“Clean yourself up, darling. This is your wedding, after all.”

Humiliated, Angel presses the handkerchief to his face. As if that weren’t salt enough in the wound, when Alastor trots away, Angel caresses the damn thing to his nose and sniffs. It smells like Alastor, the piece of cloth, and what is left of his come. The experience leaves him bereft and pissed. Angel compensates the only way he knows how.

“Don’t be a stranger, baby,” he snarls, in a futile attempt at salvaging his pride.

Alastor laughs. His microphone emits a brief burst of static. “I intend to.”

There’s a whooshing in his chest.

A tragic sound, like the extinction of hope.

His fingers reach out for Alastor, long after he leaves the room.

* * *

He reads his vows as if at gunpoint.

No one notices, with the exception of the officiant.

And apparently Husk.

When he marched down the aisle, Husk wrinkled his nose. He sent a quizzical glance at Angel, who flushed. Furrowing his brow, he sniffed the air before finally settling on the podium. The fur on his back rose as his eyes honed in on Alastor. His lips curled in a hiss, but by then it was far too late.

Of course.

Husk can _smell_ them.

He pushes his legs together, but it’s to no avail. Husk’s nostrils remain flared through the ceremony, especially when Alastor touches his wrist to join the couple’s hands in matrimony. Angel’s cunt flares as arousal courses through his veins. His fiancé, now husband, can’t spot the difference. Alastor, on the other hand, dilates his pupils to dials as his fingers graze against Angel’s knuckles.

Deliver us from evil, the quote states.

Out of the frying pan and into the fire, Angel thinks. It’s a bitter pill to swallow.

He lowers his head and kisses his husband. Eyes boring a hole through his head, Alastor’s lids droop as his gaze darkens.

It tastes like ash.

Everything.

Husk says nothing, out of fear or respect for Alastor, but the look he shoots Angel is enough.

It’s tinged with something relative to pity.

Angel shuts his eyes, all of them, as he lies through his teeth:

“I do.”

After the ceremony, Alastor all but vanishes. He announces a throwaway remark about leaving the festivities early for radio business or something or other. Smiling in that customary derisive way of his, he congratulates the couple on their nuptials. Angel’s lips pull back in a snarl. Irate as he is, he almost strikes him. Alastor’s eyes light up and dilate as Angel winds his hand back. Husk, thankfully, steps in and yanks him to the side.

“Are ya outta your goddamn mind?” he hisses, leading Angel away by his elbow. His claws rake into his skin, breaking past the top layer of fur. Angel growls at the sharp twinge.

“Fuck off, Husk,” he barks. “Mind your fuckin’ business!”

“This _is_ my business, asshole! Like it or not, he’s my boss. And you,” he says, glancing around, eyes darting furtively to the side before lowering his voice, “you’re fucking him.”

Angel sucks in a breath. For a stupid, shining moment, he thinks about racing to the door and just running to wherever his legs carry him. But sense surges back into his brain before he can act on that asinine decision. Husk sighs. It’s an angry, glottal thing, even as his voice remains level.

“Look. This is Hell. I ain’t judging shit. But you need to grow a brain or some balls. Alastor’s batshit crazy. The reason why he’s so powerful is because the bastard shed whatever the fuck was left of his humanity years ago. Trust me, ya don’t want to get involved with him.”

Angel bites his lip. He looks away. “I ain’t got no choice, now.”

Husk sighs again. “I’m guessing the kid’s his?”

Angel tightly nods.

“Couldn’t ya just-”

“ _No_. I don’t fuckin’ want to.”

“Okay.”

Okay.

That’s all there is to say about that, Angel guesses. Either way, the last bit of unsolicited information Husk relays before he departs is, “Don’t let him fuck up your redemption, kid. Leave him here to rot, and save yourself. Trust me on this. He’s a lost cause. Don’t give up your soul for his.”

Angel leans back against the wall and closes his eyes.

His thighs feel sticky. He rubs them together in shame.

His hands snake down and dip under the waistband of his torn panties.

When his husband comes looking for him, he’s flushed and dripping.

Still, he plasters on a smile.

* * *

After he’s married, Angel insists on staying at the hotel. He keeps their room, suggesting that it would be a chore to move again and have to pay rent in a seedier area of town for similar amenities. As Angel’s taken a break from freelance porn, their only income stems from his new husband’s.

It would be foolish to move and put roots down somewhere else in Pentagram City. He tells himself this every night as he stares into the dark, his eight eyes adjusting with varying degrees of success.

It has nothing to do with Alastor.

It has absolutely nothing to do with the proximity of his hellspawn’s biological sire.

That’s what Angel tells himself every night.

* * *

There are long stretches of time when Alastor avoids Angel. He’s unsure whether that’s due to his normally non-existent libido, or if he deliberately wants to rile him.

The bastard is either fickle or conniving. Most likely, both.

But when Alastor is in one of his moods, he pushes.

And does he _push_.

Once, he summoned his shadow to Angel’s room and had his apparition lick him out; toes curling as he squirmed next to his oblivious, sleeping husband. Angel slapped four hands across his mouth and face while the shadow lapped slow, concentric circles around his swollen clit. Then, it dived its wicked, pulsing length into his dripping cunt.

Angel whimpered into his palms. He frantically glanced at his husband, who slept unencumbered in a haze of blissful ignorance. The diverted attention did not escape the shadow’s notice. It growled. It suckled before it nibbled, and Angel’s hips flew off the bed. His clit pulsed with static electricity.

Angel’s other hands clutched at the shadow or tried to. Its nebulous, half-phantom form poured through the spaces between his fingers, solid one moment and as insubstantial as smoke the next. How Alastor managed to cast such a powerful and specific spell was beyond Angel’s comprehension, but the thought sent chills crawling down his spine and straight to the leaking slit of his cock.

One of the most powerful overlords in Hell and he spent his time weaving a sexual enchantment for Angel, of all demons.

His eyes rolled back as his hips flew up. The idea was all-consuming, just like the shadow that feasted on his flesh. The slow, wet slurps picked up speed and force. His orgasm built, molten to blinding. The animalistic shade then pressed its lips to his clit, and _sucked_.

The suction heaved him over the edge and Angel moaned, the warm exhale of trapped breath escaping between his claws. Bliss rained over him in arresting waves.

“Good pet,” he thought he heard. It was damn near inaudible but his husband’s ears pricked as he stirred. He mumbled, draping an arm over Angel’s stomach.

“Hmm? You say anything, baby?”

Ghostly fingers slipped into his cunt. Angel gasped, hips arching up. They dipped deeper inside, then slipped out quickly as he fluttered around the digits. It was like fog caressing his body, inside and out.

“No,” he squeaked. He pinched his eyes shut at the loss. His husband, waking up with each roll of hips, pressed closer to his body. His hands wandered south. They nestled snugly between his legs, where his cunt soaked the sheets.

“Wow, babe, you’re so wet,” his husband remarked. “Perfect.”

His hand flew up and down Angel’s shaft, pumping it clumsily in preparation. Angel sighed, then flipped over. His husband assumed their familiar position while Angel situated himself between his legs. With a practiced thrust, he entered his husband.

His husband got his cock, sure. But his cunt was reserved for Alastor.

If Angel was being honest with himself, and he hardly ever was, everything was meant for him.

But the worst thing, by far, was that the shadow remained.

To watch.

It lingered on the borders of his peripherals, but when Angel tried to focus on the distinctive shape, it blended into the rest of the specters painting the wall. As the night stretched on, so did the antlers. They grew, twisting and circuitously winding in thorny boughs the closer Angel raced to climax.

He pumped frantically into his whining husband, keeping his eyes fixed on the shadow on the wall. It bored his hollow eyes into the filthy act playing out on the creaking mattress, the jack-o-lantern smile affixed to its face. Angel squeezed his eyes closed.

His muscles snapped taut. His back arched into a bow. Angel shuddered as each wave of pleasure crested and wracked his body.

“Fuck,” he gasped.

“ _Al_.”

His veins froze as he spiraled from his climax. Heart beating wildly and ricocheting in his ribcage, he stilled. A moment passed.

Several.

Sighing, his husband relaxed in his arms. He slumped into the sheets. A snore later, and Angel finally, finally, released a gasping breath.

Fuck, he thought, glaring at the shadow. It shook as if in mirth.

Too close.

He pulled out gingerly and tended to his other needs. His fingers trailed lower. He pinched his clit with his fingers, pulsing them around the sensitive flesh. He tried vainly to think of anything else, but red seeped into his infected mind. Red eyes, and a grinning mouth.

Angel quivered as pleasure raked through him. He slapped a hand over his mouth, stifling shameful pleas with his palm. The sharp exhilaration of coming fused with sheer humiliation as memories from his night at the radio tower flashed in his mind. Pinned down and forced into submission. The bitter taste laden on his tongue, and silvery, sibilant words hissing in his ears. He came, shoving four fingers inside his cunt; the widening pressure, reminiscent of pain, too much and not enough.

He bit his lip to keep from uttering a sound.

His mind filled in the blanks anyway.

Before he blacked out, Angel felt a chilled wisp, corpse-cold, brush his cheek. He leaned into it, but it was swallowed, like all nocturnal things, by the night.

* * *

“Oh, Angel Dust!”

Comes that fucking, grating, sonorous sing-song.

He opens the door.

“Al,” he hisses. He whips his head from side to side to search for prying eyes. A nearby adjacent door swings closed. Angel narrows his eyes at the rustling fabric and the ensuing click, memorizing the room, keyhole, and number of the hastily shuttered door. He tucks in his silk robe at the waist and knots the sash.

“The fuck are ya doin’ here?”

“Why, I came to call upon a dearly missed confrère! Are there any laws I’m breaking that I’m not aware of?”

He projects that damned booming voice, enough so that the neighbors scatter. And later, probably chatter. Other doors bolt shut. They understand who exactly has come to visit.

He leers, twirling his microphone before lowering his voice. “Dogs come when called. I wonder what that makes you?”

Angel growls as Alastor inches closer. His back connects with the door as Alastor boxes him in. He shivers at the sudden proximity. And blistering warmth.

“My pet?”

Angel’s fists clench. He inadvertently pricks his palms. Alastor’s pupils dilate at the blossom of blood.

“Fine. Get the fuck inside,” he hisses through clenched teeth.

Alastor struts past singing a lyricless tune. Flipping off what remained of the nosy busybodies, Angel slams the door.

His visitor ceases humming as he examines the photographs on the wall. The precious snapshots flaunting his relationship. The ink-smudged depictions of its natural evolution. The portraits from his wedding.

The static resonates to an uglier, higher pitch.

“How disgustingly domestic,” Alastor says, cheerily.

Angel picks up on the warning in his voice but is nowhere near foolhardy enough to retort. Instead, he loosens his sash. Shrugging his shoulders, Angel slips off his robe. It flutters to the floor and pools around his ankles.

There is silence, and it is anything but comfortable. He looks down.

For a grief-stricken moment, a frisson of repulsion crawls down Angel’s back at his own brashness. Like a shrunken coat, his skin fits too tight around him, and his belly bulges in a mortifying fashion. He’s strikingly aware of how unnatural he must look; far more deformed and ungainly than in his normal demon body. Hot tears wrench free from the corners of his eyes. His face flames as shame replaces trepidation.

Hurriedly, he squats down to pick up his clothing and confidence from off the floor, when Alastor moves with unprecedented speed. There’s a snap of sure fingers as Angel is forced to the ground on his knees. A warm palm cups his belly as if shielding it from the floor. He doubles over as Alastor mounts him.

His cock is startlingly hard.

Clothes seemingly vanished into the ether, Alastor growls as he attempts to line up with Angel’s cunt. His cock pushes insistently against him, missing twice and gliding the wet slit up his lips and over his clit. Angel maneuvers one of his hands behind him and grips it around the fattening base. The ribbed underside rubs against his palm. Pleasure shrouds Angel’s mind and _soaks_ him. He moans as he guides the thick head inside him.

It breaches him.

Snarling, Alastor thrusts in. Angel yelps as the shaft stretches him. The thick, ribbed studs widen him to the brink. His eyes roll back as volcanic heat sends tremors up his spine. Alastor’s groans dive a register as Angel tightens around him. After ages of squirming, Angel fits perfectly at the base.

It’s graceless, all of it, but this time, it is injected with something different. Something desperate. Angel smells it on his skin. Alastor perspires it in waves of electrical fire. He doesn’t seem to realize he’s projecting it, so Angel keeps mum.

It sears into his skin, a brand of their hedonistic, fevered making.

They adjust their positions in accordance with Angel’s pregnancy and the less than ideal quarters.

Alastor’s hooves scrabble on the floor, struggling to grip it, but when they do, he pistons harder.

Faster. Deeper.

The studs catch on his rim with each rough pass. Angel whimpers. He’s half ashamed at how eager he is, and how much his cunt drips with Alastor’s precum and his own need. His head spins as the swirling pleasure inside him shoots to his cock. His hand desperately flies down to play with his leaking slit, but Alastor knocks it away.

He reaches around and milks him himself.

“Sweetheart,” Alastor coos, nearly garbled beyond recognition. Angel closes his eyes at the mocking endearment.

“Sweetheart,” he repeats.

Even so, Angel clings to it like a lover. A few moments pass. Moaning, he savors the delicious sensations, tasting their arousal on his tongue. He can feel his climax building to its crescendo, so he rocks back even faster. Then:

“ _Fuck_ , _love_. You’re divine.”

Angel’s eyes fly open. His heart constricts and the air punches out of his lungs. Slipping on jellied limbs, he loses his balance and careens to the ground. His arms shoot out too late, so he braces for impact. He doesn’t make contact. A strong arm wraps around his protruding belly and prevents him from hitting the ground. Alastor’s cock fucks in deeper, nestled up against that spot at the sudden change in angle. The thrusts quicken, mad and frenzied. He matches his tempo to the one beating in Angel’s flickering chest, to the thrumming in his ears.

Past the heady rushing in his mind, he hears his name.

“Anthony.”

Dizzily, Angel notes that he’s never heard Alastor sound like that.

With Alastor supporting him, Angel comes.

He convulses the same time he spills over Alastor’s fist.

His legs liquify from under him. The grip on his cock releases, and another arm swings around him. The staccato throbs and influx of warmth filling him heighten the throes of his peak. The knots thicken, as usual. But this time, instead of instinctively squirming away, Angel grinds down to the base. He plugs himself to the brim with Alastor’s pulsating girth.

Angel sighs, swallowing back a wince. The knots widen and stretch him, pulsing every few seconds with the desperate spill of seed. Hair brushes between his shoulder blades as he relaxes into the embrace.

They stay connected until the knotting subsides.

And for a little while longer after that.

* * *

“It moved.”

He laughs, unrestrained glee bubbling up and trickling out in his voice. “Al! It moved!”

They lay in a sprawled heap atop Angel’s couch. Alastor’s bulk is mostly curled behind him, but it doesn’t stop their limbs from tangling together.

He gazes down in awe. His hands travel to his stomach, caressing the curve until they follow the slope down to his thighs. Alastor’s eyes burn through him, but Angel is too giddy to care. Drunk with joy, he beckons to him.

“Wanna feel?” Angel asks. He turns, beaming from ear to ear.

Alastor hesitates. Then, nostrils flaring, he tentatively pulls off his gloves, exposing sooty, darkened hands tipped with red-black claws. His fingers extend out. After hovering for a beat, he shakes his head. He pulls his hand back.

“I’m not sure that’s a good-”

Angel huffs. He reaches over and grabs his hand. Rolling his eyes, but still inordinately pleased, he places it over his stomach.

It’s a furnace.

Alastor’s claws retract quickly. He sheaths the tips back just as his palm cups the curve. His brows knit together as he strokes his belly. Usually, Angel can sense Alastor’s demonic energy in spades, but as soon as his hand touched Angel’s skin, it dissipated. Idly, they watch his hand caress his stomach. After some time passes, Alastor forcibly exhales.

He nearly snatches his hand back until Angel covers it with his palm. Anchoring him there. His fingers splay over his before threading inside the empty spaces.

It _kicks_.

Heart quickening, Angel turns his head. Alastor’s face is unreadable.

Whatever is written there seems smudged, like a thumbprint pinned to a newspaper. It’s unintelligible and wholly foreign, as if even he is parsing out what or how to feel.

Or, he understands exactly, and that is why the brief flickers of varying expressions bleed and run together until it coalesces into a mask obfuscating his face.

Angel winces as it kicks again. He yanks his hand back to rub at the base of his spine. “Fuck. Yeah, this is definitely your kid.”

Alastor jolts. He stares at Angel for a split second before guffawing. His chest vibrates under Angel’s back. Angel glowers.

“Hey, asshole! _You_ fuckin’ try carryin’ demon spawn! See how ya like it!”

After wiping away an imaginary tear, he theatrically sighs. He digs his chin into Angel’s upper shoulder. “I can allay the cramping, you know. If you’d like.”

Angel clasps two hands over where his deceased heart might be. “Aw, Al! Bein’ nice because I’m pregnant?”

“Diplomatic.”

Alastor hums. It warps into an alien language as it leaves his lips, but Angel supposes that it’s a spell of some sort. The pain instantly evaporates.

He sings to it, at first just his naked voice. Soon, though: orchestral accompaniment.

Propped up against a table, his microphone clicks on. Notes slip out between the metal bands.

For a transient, brilliant moment, they bask in the shared glow of their creation. Of wonderment, if there ever were such a thing in that deplorable place. Alastor’s claws idly skate up the curve. He combs claw-retracted fingers over the silken skin.

Up close, Alastor’s features appear softened, somehow. The ever-present smile exists in this plane as a subdued curl. His hair shields heavy-lidded eyes. Angel sniggers inwardly. As if The Radio Demon could ever be described as something silly and weak as _soft_.

“Something amusing, dear?”

He sneers, but it lacks bite. A wicked gleam shimmers through his monocle.

Up close, Angel can pinpoint tiny webbed creases in the corners of his eyes. Gently, he places his hand again over where Alastor’s resides, tangled up in that precious space between them.

From his own body, he can feel two distinct, thudding heartbeats.

And outside of that, unless he’s sorely mistaken, a third.

As the seconds tick by, Alastor moves closer. He wraps his arms around Angel’s body, cocooning him. Angel lifts his chin and tilts towards him, coaxed in by that inescapable gravitational pull.

Two halves, meeting in their middle.

It is, like all things involving them, reminiscent of surrender.

* * *

Alastor never touches his pregnant stomach again.

* * *

Sometimes, when Angel is feeling especially vulnerable, he wonders what it would be like to love Alastor.

What it would mean if that wretched, unnamed thing that they have was shaped into something more.

If that slip of the tongue meant anything at all.

Eventually, common sense returns.

What a stupid, preposterous idea.

He snuggles up to his husband, who shifts in his sleep. Outside, the night reeks of sin and scandal. All manner of vices abounds, inspiring gluts of guilt. The self-same shame that rivals the churning in his gut.

He doesn’t dream about Alastor, or music, or the way gentle fingers danced along the crescent curve of his protruding belly.

The radio, tucked away in the recesses in the gloom, warbles a lament, or lullaby; a record eternally skipping and irrevocably broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [NSFW Art by the amazing Lena Vicky](https://twitter.com/lena_sins/status/1351609776145358848)


End file.
